


The Witch's Tower

by Cerch



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Curses, F/F, True Love's Kiss, background Merlin/Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:31:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3408995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerch/pseuds/Cerch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a dangerous witch living in a tower. As the first knight of the realm Morgana feels it’s her duty to free the kingdom of her ire once and for all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Witch's Tower

**Author's Note:**

> First femslash fic, exciting! 
> 
> Thank you for the beta belongs to [Sass](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sassafrasx/pseuds/sassafrasx), who is awesome and deserves lots of cookies <3

The forest around her is old, full of knowledge and secrets that weight their branches down towards the earth and bury them in their shadows. They speak to her as she rides past them on her stallion, drown her in restless whispers. Tell us, they beckon, tell us or leave, and under them speak voices of madness in delighted riddles. Something touches her shoulder, her cheek, reminding her of the greedy hands of the old lords, always, always accidentally brushing against her in the claustrophobic walls of her childhood home where there had been no sword for her to pick up.  But back straight as arrow and body tense as a bow she rides on, for she is the first knight of Camelot and not a timid little girl, though she wishes she could fight this witchcraft with her sword.

The glade appears from seemingly nowhere; one moment she is staring at an endless row of trees and then suddenly she is out, at the bottom of the valley, where the air is clear and the ground covered in flowers. Tension bleeds out from her steed, as happy as its rider to be away from the woods.

Some distance away stands the tower. It is not terribly high, certainly not as high as the towers of Camelot, nor is the craftsmanship as impressive; it’s made of white stone that has lost most of its shine, and lacks all but the simplest of ornaments carved to frame the large windows at the top, and the base has long since disappeared under layers of ivy.

Morgana rides closer, one hand on the hilt of her sword, and dismounts cautiously to inspect her destination. The door, if it ever existed, has long since disappeared under the ivy; Morgana touches the leaves gingerly with her leather clad hand and looks up, considering the rough edges and cracks of the stones above her in the waning light.  Somewhere close a robin chirps, a lilting sound in the silent evening.

Morgana takes a step back from the wall, intending to call for the witch of the tower, but the sound of a soft voice answering the robin makes her stop in her tracks. If she had been riding in a forest she would perhaps have believed the sound belonged to a bird, but here – listening to the otherworldly lilt of the song at the feet of a witch’s tower, her skin prickling and heart filled with odd lightness – she knows this is magic.

She wonders how such a sweet presence can belong to the witch whose curse has forced a family to abandon their home. Maybe it is an illusion, a trick intended to fool her into lowering her guard and giving the witch the first chance to strike, but her heart protests and Morgana has always taken pride in listening to her instincts. The song ends, the robin answers, but Morgana, though loath to interrupt the exchange, is on a quest and so she addresses the dark windows of the tower.

“Witch,” she speaks, and wishes she had a name, “I am Lady Morgana, the first knight of the realm, and I have come to bring you to Camelot to answer for the curse that was placed on the farm built into this valley.”

A shape moves to the window and a young girl leans out. She has flowers in her chestnut hair and her smile is a sad one.

“Welcome, lady knight,” she says. “Would you like to come up?”

Morgana, very aware of the weight of her sword on her hip and half prepared for a fight, stifles a startled laugh. “So you can curse me?” she asks, honestly curious to hear the answer.

The witch flinches, mouth falling open in surprise. “No!” She considers something for a moment. “And I wouldn’t need you to be up here for that. If I wanted to curse you, that is. I just don’t like talking to people while hanging out of my window.” The last part sounds like a question.

“You could always come down here, witch.”

The witch leans further out of the window and her eyes gleam in the dark.

“Maybe,” she says, but sounds reluctant. “Could you not call me ‘witch’? My name is Freya.”

“Freya,” Morgana repeats. It doesn’t sound like an evil name; somehow it seems to suit a young girl who talks to birds in her tower.

Freya smiles and climbs onto the windowsill, sitting down so that her bare feet dangle freely in the air.  

“You seem lovely,” Freya says, looking up at the sky. “But I really can’t come with you.”

“Because you didn’t do it?”

“It wasn’t a curse,” she says, and looks back down at Morgana. “You see, I’m the one that is cursed. It’s true that I put wards around this valley, and that magic eventually drives away everyone who would settle here. It’s for the best.” Her voice is full of loneliness and her keen gaze speaks of sorrow.

This is the truth, Morgana knows, and yet she doesn’t understand.

“Tell me?” she asks.

“It’s a long tale,” Freya warns half-heartedly, before continuing without waiting for an answer. “Years ago, I came to this tower to seek knowledge. And I found it, in endless tomes and carvings that I studied day and night. They described things that I had never even heard about – there was a healing spell that could restore the sight of a blind man.”

Even now the memory brings a flash of delight to her face.

“I walked to the nearby town and healed the old tavern keeper whose age had taken his sight. I helped them all with my new-found knowledge, little things, sometimes larger, but eventually I returned. And then I found a new spell I wanted to try. It was a transformation spell, one that could turn person into a winged cat, a bastet. But I made a mistake – I don’t know what or where – and what was meant to be a beneficial spell turned into a curse that I could not undo. Every night I would turn into a mindless beast, hunting and ravaging the woods. Desperate, I cast some of my strongest spells on this tower so that inside no curse holds. But every evening I must return here or the beast will take over, and so, lady knight, I cannot come with you.”

Her fate is so devastatingly unfair and her tone so defeated that Morgana feels her heart clench in pain.

“Every spell can be broken,” she tries, but Freya just shakes her head.

“I have tried everything.”

Morgana stares at her. She looks like a nymph against the darkening sky. “The king,” she says slowly. “Merlin is the most powerful sorcerer alive, he can help you.”

For a moment Morgana thinks she sees hope but it’s gone in a blink, washed away to some empty, bottomless chasm.

“I’m not sure he could,” Freya says quietly, glancing up at the sky, and lifts her feet up. “Ride back to your castle, lady knight. The only person I cursed was myself.” She hops inside, but speaks once more before disappearing. “It was a happy fate that brought you here for it has been long since I have had such pleasant company. Goodbye.”

Morgana stares, helpless anger burning at her fingertips, as a curtain falls over the empty window.

In silence she mounts her stallion and rides for Camelot. She knows she will be back.

 

xxx

 

The Kings of Camelot receive her back warmly, and in the peace of a private meal listen to her as she recounts her tale. With worry she notices how Merlin’s frown grows deeper and deeper with each passing sentence and how his eyes seem distant and troubled. He doesn’t have an answer, Morgana knows, even before he says it, but he promises to try and Morgana believes in him with fierce determination.

Morgana would ride out immediately if Arthur didn’t forbid it, saying that she needed rest and Merlin time for preparations. She hates it when he’s right, and she hates the thought of Freya alone in her tower, believing her fate doomed like Morgana once had.

 

xxx

 

She dreams of Freya, of a lake on a summer day and of their naked bodies in the water, chasing each other but never touching.

 

xxx

 

“Morgana,” Merlin says as they journey quietly. “Some witches, they may seem innocent and sweet, but sometimes the heart is rotten. I’m not saying she lied to you, but the chance is always there.”

She isn’t evil, Morgana thinks, but her voice says, “I know.”

 

xxx

 

They arrive before midday, sun only starting its hike over the sky, and in the grass at the bottom of the tower sits Freya, seemingly waiting for them.

She stands up, her brown dress patched with dew, as they come closer and curtsies at Merlin as prettily as any lady of the court.

“The wind told me you would return, lady knight,” she tells her and Morgana can’t help but smile.

They are glad to dismount and feel the ground under their feet – Merlin sits down, sighing in relief, and pats the ground lovingly before giving them a sheepish grin, a slight blush dancing on his cheeks as he mutters something about his magic and connection with the earth.

Freya snickers softly before quickly covering her mouth with her hand, a slightly horrified expression on her face that makes Morgana laugh, rich and deep. Merlin ignores her.

“Freya,” he says after a moment of studying her. “I need to touch you if that’s alright.”

Freya’s nod is decisive, no hint of hesitation in her voiced “Of course,” and Merlin stands up and walks to her, laying one hand on her shoulder while the other cups the side of her head. Freya’s eyes flutter closed as Merlin’s light up with an inhuman golden shine. She is a paralysed butterfly in the web of Merlin’s magic, both frozen to the outside world apart from their ever so slightly moving chests.

A falcon makes its rounds in the sky, a robin sings it song and time passes. Morgana picks up her sword, repeats the familiar drills until a gasp from Freya halts her in mid movement. Merlin’s hands drop and Freya staggers backwards, a dazzled look on her face.

Merlin shakes his head, the last trace of gold disappearing. “Her story was true,” he says, and relief flickers at the back of Morgana’s mind. “But I cannot lift her curse.”

His face is pained, but Freya’s is as blank as a field covered in new snow. “It’s alright,” she says, careful and slow.

Morgana’s hands ball into fists and over Freya’s face stretches a wooden imitation of a smile.

“It isn’t,” Morgana snaps, and Freya’s eyes squeeze shut.

“Maybe so, lady knight. Yet it has to be,” she answers with a voice sharp enough to slice down mountains, and inwardly Morgana flinches, though she knows she is right and Freya is wrong to give up.

“No,” Merlin says slowly, and they both whip around to look at him. He looks haggard, exhausted like he hasn’t slept for days, but his eyes are sharp and contemplating. “I may not be able to lift it, but there are magics stronger than any power given to man, and by them every spell can be reversed and every curse broken for there has to be balance. And –” he hesitates, “there is no stronger magic than true love’s kiss.”

Morgana stares at him. There is no such a thing as true love, she wants to say. But there is hope hidden in the careful curl of Freya’s lips, and she stays quiet, hoping for her sake that she is wrong. Maybe she is. Maybe it simply doesn’t belong to people like Morgana, but to people like Freya, sweet and kind and lovely as a warm summer day.

Freya who will never meet anyone here, in her tower, protected by her wards.

“You need to come to Camelot,” she says.

Freya startles, but Merlin nods approvingly.

“I can suppress the curse for a couple of nights and when we reach Camelot I will replicate the spells you have used here,” he says, making a vague twirl with his hand towards the tower. “I should be able to cover the whole castle or at least most of it.”

“Truly?” Freya sighs with such obvious happiness and admiration that it’s almost enough to annoy Morgana, a feeling that she shoves away before she has a chance to examine it too closely.

 

xxx

 

Suppressing Freya’s curse for their journey has clearly tired Merlin, but what colour has fled his cheeks has risen on Freya’s and the sad lilt of her mouth has eased. She glows like a magical flower blooming with the light of the sun, impossibly beautiful and tempting, and Morgana dreams of bestowing kisses on her nose and collarbone and on the inside of her thigh where her dress sometimes rides up. Morgana doesn’t want to watch, but she can never quite tear her eyes away, and she is glad when in Camelot Arthur insists on providing Freya with long dresses more suitable to the court.

Freya stammers and blushes her thanks to Arthur. His eyes crinkle with amusement, though Freya probably doesn't notice, and Merlin leans against his side, clearly tired but content. Morgana watches with small smile how Arthur’s hand curls possessively around Merlin’s waist, glad for their obvious happiness, though she also keeps an eye on Freya, afraid that her admiration for Merlin might have sown the seeds of infatuation as well, but nothing on her face speaks of jealousy when she looks at the kings, and the tightness living in Morgana’s chest loosens a little.

 

xxx

 

She introduces Freya to her knights – there is Sir Lancelot the Brave, Sir Percival the Giant, Sir Gwaine the Charming, Sir Leon the Loyal and Sir Elyan the Kind – and Freya walks with them in the sunshine of the practice field, slowly growing alive and smiling and laughing with them while Morgana watches with mixed feelings.

"Lady knight," Freya says suddenly, turning away from her conversation with Gwaine and Leon. With a pleased glint in her eyes and a hand on her hip she asks, "Would I be permitted to watch your practice tomorrow?"

Morgana takes in a surprised breath – and then she grins. Leon’s face looks pained when he sees her expression, making Morgana grin all the harder.

“Of course. I find an audience always livens up the practice.”

There is a slight purr in her voice; she loves showing off and it’s something she has long since stopped apologising for. Even Gwaine grimaces briefly, no doubt remembering the one time she had – almost accidentally – broken his arm, but Freya doesn’t seem to notice their expressions and gives Morgana a quick curtsey. It’s hardly orthodox but somehow it’s charming all the same.  

“I’m looking forward to it then.”

Morgana nods and makes her excuses. Her skin tingles with excitement that refuses to die even when she has drenched her face in cold water behind the locked door of her chambers.

 

xxx

 

Morgana has no need for personal servants. She used to have a maid, Gwen, a sweet, dark girl whose father had taught her his craft of blacksmithy. Morgana had gladly helped her start her own practice, though she sometimes misses her constant presence and friendship. But she can dress and undress herself just fine unlike some of the other highborn ladies. Not that Morgana’s high birth had been anything but a lie.

She has just drawn on her long, white nightgown, when a knock disturbs her. It’s quite late – the sounds of Camelot’s people have mostly faded and the sky is dark apart from the stars and a full moon that occasionally peek out from behind the curtain of clouds. The knock sounds again, and Morgana picks up her knife and walks to the door.

“What is it?” she asks.

Someone, small and light, moves behind the door.

“It’s me, Freya,” Freya’s voice answers, and Morgana quickly shoves the knife into a drawer and hurries to unlatch the door.

Freya is staring at her feet when the door opens, her stance fidgety. She is still fully dressed, and a blush creeps up her cheeks when she notices Morgana’s attire.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “but could I come in for a second?”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Morgana answers, and beckons her to come in.

“Thank you.”

Freya tiptoes in – her feet are bare under the dress, Morgana notes – and stops in the middle of the room, looking lost.

Morgana latches the door.

“A glass of wine?” she offers without moving away from the door. Something about Freya’s aura feels strange, and for a moment she ponders what she would do if Merlin’s spells were to wear off. She dismisses the thought as impossible.

Freya turns to look at her, her eyes intense for a moment before they shift away and her expression turns sheepish.

“Please.”

She sits down at Morgana’s small table without waiting for an invitation and lifts her eyes to the roof. There is nothing there to see, just dark wood. Morgana knows it has no answers, but says nothing and goes to pour the wine.

They sit in silence with their goblets for a while before Freya takes a sip. Morgana waits and Freya makes a disgusted face at her wine.

“I don’t understand why you fancy people prefer this to ale,” she says, her nose pinched.

“I’m not fancy people.”

Freya’s eyes rake over her. “Maybe not.”

She stands up, walks around the table to stand behind Morgana.

“Morgana,” she says in a breathy whisper that sends chills down Morgana’s neck. “Would you give me a kiss?”

Morgana nods, command of her voice gone, and stands up to face Freya.

She looks wild and fierce and her cheeks are flushed, eyes questioning. Morgana nods again and Freya crowds into her space, pushes her against the hard edge of the table. Morgana grips the edge with one hand, but the other one climbs up Freya’s bodice and tangles firmly in her hair. Freya is much shorter against her, her breath falling heavy and warm on Morgana’s left breast, the thin fabric of nightgown offering no protection. She doesn’t look, but she can imagine her nipples peaking, begging to be touched, and Freya lifts her hand, carefully soothing her thumb up her breast, and then around, around, but never quite there, never quite enough.

A high pitched breath escapes Morgana’s throat and Freya hums, and suddenly Morgana has had enough. She hooks one of her legs around Freya’s and draws her closer, tugging on her hair to tilt her head back. Freya hisses in pleasure and pushes up to meet Morgana’s lips.

It’s not quite right at first, but then Freya’s hand comes up to cup Morgana’s head, tilt it to the side just a little, and then it’s all sweetness and fire. She rubs herself against Freya, desperate to ease the throbbing between her thighs, but Freya pulls back with breathy chuckle. Morgana’s whine dies on her lips when she sees Freya’s eyes, burning silver, but Freya takes her hand and tugs her towards the bed and Morgana can’t think of a single reason why it should matter.

 

xxx

 

In the first light of morning the first knight of Camelot beats each and every one of her knights and smiles. In the sidelines stands a young witch, beautiful and finally free, and the first knight walks up to her, casts her sword aside and bestows a chaste kiss upon her lips. The witch gives her knight a look, wraps her arms tightly around her neck and kisses her long and deep, not caring about their audience or really anything else other than their happiness.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are very much appreciated and comments loved to a maniac extent.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Witch's Tower](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3613251) by [h_d_podfics (h_d)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/h_d/pseuds/h_d_podfics)




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